


Spinning Light From Your Veins

by EtuBrutus



Series: Magic, or what you will. [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 06:16:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17678030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EtuBrutus/pseuds/EtuBrutus
Summary: "We hold our magic in blood, not in breakable trinkets and spinning wheels. You're a fool for thinking any different, hag.""People are breakable, and blood is as spillable as milk." She sighed. "Let me teach you, child."





	Spinning Light From Your Veins

It was a very old spinning wheel. Almost a dozen generations old, and it was still in pristine condition. There was reason it had never worn down, though the old hag - his great-great-grandmother -  who’d owned it had never told anybody. _Figure it out,_ she’d told her daughters. _There ought to be more in that head than just tapestries and looms._

The Wheel was a honeywood, glazed old thing. The light from Faro’s tiny window almost made it glow - it looked like something out of an early renaissance textbook, but obviously, it was older.

Nothing that old should have looked this nice. It wasn’t possible.

A memory resurfaced in Faro’s mind: _‘Nothing’s impossible, not really. If you can think it, you’d better be willing to make it happen. Dreams are rare - you’ve got to keep hold and wrestle them into reality.’_

His mother. Ah, even in death, she’s as irritatingly wise as ever.

_What am I supposed to do in this tower-prison anyway? I’m trapped here - that’s your fault, remember?_

His dead mother, the inconsiderate thing, didn’t bother answering.

Faro grunted as he pushed The Wheel aside. The light coming through the window was faint enough that he knew it was evening outside. God, he’d never liked being outside, but being held prisoner in this tower was far worse.

There was no point in blaming his mother for the situation. Even though she'd been killed and he'd been held prisoner for the forsaken spinning-wheel, bygones were bygones.

The spinning-wheel didn’t _do_ anything at all - it just sat there, bathing in the window’s light as Faro contemplated his nonexistent escape.

Escape. Even if he _could_ manage it, where would he go? Stay on the run and hope not to get caught again? Lug the spinning-wheel along with him? It wouldn’t be of any use - he wasn’t even a daughter of their bloodline (a _son,_ how dull.)

There was rapping at the old and not-rickety door. A woman let herself in before he could say anything. She was a tall, beefy and muscular. And her hands were nimble, perfect for handling a loom. Of course they were. Another 'daughter' from another power hungry bloodline.

"Figured it out yet, _Haole_?"

"As a matter of fact, no. I wonder if my genitals are the only problem."

The woman chuckled. It wasn't a nice sound. "Oh, I'm sure there's some Hasanov magic in there, _Haole_." She stepped closer, and Faro could guess that she'd break his spine if he wasn't the only Hasanov left.

The only one who could work The Wheel, supposedly.

Faro had been trapped in this tower for a month now - they hadn't dared to kill him, lest they waste his blood, not when his mother wasn't around to spin them magic anymore. Within that month, he'd flung her mantra 'don't antagonize your enemies' out of his tiny window.

"Give me another month, I'm sure there's no hurry."

Her expression tightened, and Faro was suddenly grateful that he was reassigned interrogators every day - he didn't want to face her again.

She dropped a package on the floor - fresh thread, along with some food (hopefully.) It wasn't going to work, Faro thought. I'm going to die here, with bundles of unspun thread at my feet.

"Figure it out, Hasanov." She bit out. "There're faster ways to get magic from blood."

The door slammed shut behind her. It was definitely evening, but the god-forsaken wheel was still glowing.

Goodnight, Faro told it. No one else he'd known for more than a day was still alive.

_**Goodnight, kid.** _

 

Contrary to what he'd told his captors, Faro knew how to spin thread. It would have been difficult not to learn, growing up a Hasanov, even as a _son_ . He could weave clothes and tapestries and anything practical, but the art, the _magic_ of spinning wheels had been taught to only the _daughters_ of Afra Hasanov - the old hag herself.

**_Damn right._ **

In technicality, The Wheel was an heirloom - something to show their bloodline's power and status. Which meant it now belonged to him - the last Hasanov.

Faro saw the sun rising - finally. He'd been up before dawn, the only talent he'd gotten from his mother.

He pushed off his mangy cot and began stretching. Methodically and precisely, keeping one foot here for exactly ten seconds and repeating. It wasn't proper exercise, but it was something he could control, at least.

The early sun's rays lit up the spinning-wheel, even though he'd shoved it into the shadows, out of the window's range. Darn magic, always finding a way to be beautiful.

**_How nice of you._ **

It wasn't that Faro _couldn't_ use the wheel - he had the blood for it. It was just that the Hasanovs were the most sexist magical family anyone knew of. The women were taught the craft, yes, and the men - the _‘Haole’s’_ \- were barely more than decorations. His mother - the fool - hadn't thought to teach him _anything,_ even when they'd gone on the run. 'Quiet,' she'd say. 'I'll do the work. You just sit here, completely defenseless if I die.'

His childhood hadn't been the best.

Sometimes, Faro thought he'd be able to use The Wheel. Not even his mother had used it - The Hasanov's held their magic in their blood, not in some breakable pretty spinning wheel.

**_People are breakable too. And that's crap anyway._ **

He looked at the door. At precisely six in the evening, a woman would walk through it and demand he give up the secret of The Wheel. Like it held some treasure, and all Faro had to do was follow a map. Like they'd let him take a step out of this room.

His skin was prickling. He calmed himself down.

**_You won't get anywhere by doing that, kid._ **

The Wheel was still glowing, and Faro tried not to notice it.

 

It was dark outside, and the ever-growing bundle of thread lay at Faro's feet. He massaged his jaw - the interrogator had grabbed it before threatening him some more - a nice change in routine.

Maybe he _should_ try spinning on The Wheel. A scarf, or something. Anything that would appease his captors. He knew he was losing his resolve - but resolve for what? He had nothing to lose.

**_You've got yourself. Listen to me._ **

Faro _really_ didn't want to think about the spinning-wheel right now. He was losing his grip already - it was a miracle he hadn't tried breaking the heirloom yet, just to spite the interrogators.

**_Listen, dammit. I can help you._ **

They didn't _really_ think he could do it. Faro wasn't sure if he did either, but if he could, _if they found out_ , they'd do _anything_ to keep the power to themselves.

**_Faro._ **

The Wheel was glowing. Not the usual 'bouncing light' sort of glow, but actual light emanating from the inside out.

**_Listen. You can't let them know this is happening. I'll teach you to spin magic from your veins._ **

He was listening.

 

"What've you got back there?"

They'd sent a man to interrogate him today, probably in the hopes that it'd make him more comfortable - more liable to let up his secrets. Ah, the lovely familiarity of sexist magical hierarchies.

He didn't _have_ secrets, least of them magical.

"A spinning wheel."

The man was almost as short as he was and wore casual clothes. His hair was dark and looked soft - Faro envied him. He hadn't had a bath for a week - he'd been blindfolded in the tower's basement for his last one. They'd just poured water onto him, clothes and all, and left him to dry in his room. Disgusting and unsanitary, his mother would have said.

"Ah. Is there anything... special about it?" The man was from one of the families, for sure. Guards were never this pathetically hopeful when getting information.

"It's a _pretty_ spinning-wheel, how about that?"

A sigh. "Let me try again. Is it special to _you_?"

"It's all I have left of my dead mother, but no, not really." The man frowned, and Faro grinned in response. "Nice talking to you. I would offer to meet up sometime, but you've got to understand," Faro gestured to the small tower-cell, "I'm a bit stuck at the moment." He added in a wink, for good measure, practically asking to be threatened or beaten up. Instead, the man ignored him and went over to the loom himself.

**_Tell him._ **

What?

**_We can trust him, and besides, he's got something we need._ **

He wasn't going to tell some dark-haired stranger about the possessed, magical spinning-wheel's secrets. But The Wheel - or the woman inside of it - didn't seem to be in the habit of lying.

"So, how long have you been in here?" Asked the man.

"A month."

The man looked surprised. Now that Faro looked at him, he realized they were probably the same age. "Really? I haven't seen you around here."

"I haven't left this room."

"Oh."

**_We both know he's not an_ actual _interrogator - tell him, you twit._**

Dark-hair's hands were hovering above the loom. No, not the loom, the thread-hole... as if imagining something there.

What did Faro have to lose?

"There's something different about it. It...it tells me things sometimes."

Dark-hair looked back at him, listening.

"It glows, doesn't it? When the sunlight hits it?"

How had he known? "Yeah, it does."

The silence grew between them. Faro seemed to be missing something - Dark-hair's eyes were seeing something on The Wheel that he couldn't pick up on.

**_Ask him about himself. Tell him more, if you have to._ **

What, was he supposed to propose to him as well?

 **_At_ ** **least** **_his name._**

Fine. "What's your name?"

The man - teenager? - raised his eyebrow. "Do you have the authority to ask that question?"

Oh, they were posturing now? How lovely.

"Do _you_ have the authority to even be here? We know you don't," Faro was sweating - this would end badly if he was wrong, but he continued, "I'm sure if I start talking about the _Haole_ interested in The Wheel, the actual interrogators would notice."

Dark-hair narrowed his eyes, and glared at him. Faro held his gaze, his own pale eyes unwavering.

The spinning wheel was glowing brighter and brighter, and stung his eyes as he stared on.

"Aaron. My name - it's Aaron."

_**Listen to him.** _

"Listen to me." Aaron said.

 

Faro didn't sleep that night. It was strange - he'd always been an early riser, but tonight, _Afra Hasanov_ just wouldn't shut up. She wanted him to practice with the fresh thread.

**_Cross-stitch, then weave. God, didn't your mother teach you anything? Shame on her._ **

He was a son, remember? He wouldn't have _had_ to know any of this if there had been anyone else with Hasanov blood in them. Besides, there hadn't been any time for his mother to have taught him much. They'd been on the run for most of his childhood and teenage years.

**_There's more to us than just tapestries and looms, boy. You're a Hasanov._ **

A ‘ _Haole’_ of a Hasanov.

**_No, you're worth more than these bastards could have imagined. That's a good thing - they're underestimating you, and Aaron. It'll work to your advantage._ **

Aaron? He'd had met Aaron for barely ten minutes _that day_. There was a big 'plan' happening soon - both he and Aaron were part of some 'prophecy,' but Faro couldn't care less. (The prophecy hadn't even been in _English._ ) He just wanted to get out of here.

It's what his mother would have done. She'd have dragged The Wheel behind her and fought herself to freedom.

**_What freedom, Faro? A non-magical life on the run doesn't count._ **

Faro glared at The Wheel - iridescent in the moonlight, with the light being swallowed and projected out again. It was a weak phenomenon, a breakable rarity amongst magical items, and yet Afra Hasanov had possessed it. Something to keep her soul in when she'd lost her body.

She'd lived long - at least, that's what the Hasanov's had been taught about their matriarch. She died old and withered, but she'd been happy.

Faro couldn't say the same for his mother. Surviving for as long as she could with her teenage son wasn't something the woman had wished for, but she'd ended up doing it anyway. His mother had been killed in a _political struggle,_ something she'd got caught in the middle of, _just because she'd been a Hasanov._

There weren't any more Hasanovs left. Faro's existence was probably classified information, for how could a ‘Haole’ be the remaining heir to the family?

He feared the families - that was the truth. They were stronger and held more power than he ever would.

But he _was_ a Hasanov. He was the great-grandson of Afra The Great, and god be _damned_ if Faro was going to die like his mother had.

"You're right. Teach me again."

The Wheel glowed brighter, and Faro could almost _hear_ the hag's voice.

**_Pick up the thread. Cross stitch, then weave._ **

His skin was prickling, and this time, Faro didn't push away the feeling. He brought the unspun thread to the Wheel, threaded it, and felt the glowing wood under his hands.

**_Good._ **

 

Aaron had chosen the _worst_ time to show up.

Around noon, the cell's tiny window had shuddered. It'd woken Faro up - The Wheel (or, Afra, though she didn't like to be called that,) had kept him awake for _hours_ during the night, teaching him to weave using magic and honing his skills.

The window had shuddered again, and again. For quite some time, actually, until a voice had said, "Screw this thing," from the other side and _melted_ the glass off of its panes.

Melted. How dull.

The dark-haired teen swung through the empty hole, and nimbly landed on the stone floor. Today, he was wearing a cloak and mask, with leather gloves covering his hands.

Faro would have laughed if he had the energy. Instead, he settled for, "Congratulations, you're officially the most pretentiously dressed criminal I've ever seen."

Aaron looked taken aback. "I was trying to be cautious. Nobody's going to recognize me in this."

"Sure," Faro scoffed, "They won't give a damn about _you_. What they _will_ notice is your tailored, custom-made cloak and your expensive leather gloves. You might as well wave a flag with 'privilege' embroidered onto it for all it's worth."

Aaron flushed, and fiddled around with his gloves. "The cloak's got pockets for the thread. And besides, what do _you_ know about subtlety - you're a  Hasanov, how much more privileged can you get?" He slid a spool of thread out from inside his glove, and a thimble from one of his pockets. The cloak trailed behind him as he walked to the Wheel, and Faro felt a sudden flare of excitement.

His skin began prickling, as though the magic underneath was trying to escape.

He was escaping. _Escaping_!

It had been a while since he'd talked to anyone but his interrogators and the Wheel, and he was itching for some conversation.

"My mother and I didn't know anything about subtlety before we ran away. We had to learn." Aaron didn't look up from the Wheel, but Faro knew he was listening. "She barely taught me to weave, but she made sure I knew how to survive on the streets. Blending in, disguises, lockpicking - that's what I know to do."

Aaron said nothing, but his expression shifted - something like understanding slipped through.

**_I_ told _you he could be trusted._ **

Faro walked over to him, and showed him the thread he'd practiced on at night - he'd spun it into countless ropes and scarves. "These are made of regular thread, so the Wheel wasn't able to do much." he gestured to the pile of scarves and sheets. "They _are_ enhanced, though. I tried tearing them, to no avail. Plus, it's all waterproof."

Aaron ran his hands through hair, completely defeating the purpose of his hooded-cloak. "So what you're saying is that The Wheel gives magic to whatever it spins?"

**_An oversimplification, but yes._ **

Aaron's eyes widened. "Wha-huh? Did...did you hear that?"

Faro valiantly managed to summon the energy to laugh. "It's her," he said, shrugging at the Wheel. "She's what I meant when I said 'The Wheel' was talking to me."

The dark-haired teen took a deep breath. "That's... that's amazing."

**_Oh, I like him, Faro. You both have my blessing._ **

"Blessing?" Aaron asked. "For what?"

Faro choked. "Don't mind her, really." God, didn't possessed spinning wheels sleep? "I'm suspecting she's gone senile."

**_Treat your great-grandmother with respect, boy. Don't want to make a bad impression on this one, do you?_ **

Realization passed over Aaron's face. "You're both related? You're a Hasanov?" He almost dropped the spool of thread. "Don't tell me you're _her_. Afra Hasanov?"

**_The one and only._ **

Faro rolled his eyes, and flicked Aaron's hood out of his face. "Let's get back on track." He pointed at the golden thread on the spool. "Is this it?"

"Yes. The string of Ariadne. Supposedly, the Hasanov Wheel is supposed to imbue it with power by weaving it into something." Aaron was still staring in awe at the Wheel.

Faro blinked. "What?"

"The _legend?_  The old prophecy? How could you of all people not know?"

"Get on with it, cloak-and-dagger."

Aaron sighed, "During Afra Hasanov's - your - lifetime," he addressed the Wheel, "She collaborated with Ariadne Minopele to create items of power. Specifically, a spinning wheel and never-ending spool of golden thread.

Ariadne declared them heirlooms - status holders for the families. Afra didn't want to - in her eyes, the items could be used as resources. "

**_Ariadne was a fool - powerful, definitely, but gullible and complacent nonetheless._ **

Aaron averted his gaze, but continued, "They ended up splitting the items and keeping them for their own families. Afra wasn't happy with that."

Faro looked at the Wheel - the thing his mother had died for. Of course it was useless - magical, perhaps, to an ordinary seamstress. His mother would be rolling over in her grave right now. (If she'd been buried. Which she hadn't.)

**_Hmm. Aaron... ‘Minopele’ is your last name, isn't it?_ **

"Yes." He said. Faro could hear something in his tone, bitter and tired. "Aaron Minopele, the great-grandson of Ariadne Minopele."

**_I thought so. You probably don't know why I wasn't happy with just the Wheel. My motives weren't as greedy as you think - I couldn’t have cared less for the status I would have with both items._ **

Aaron turned to face Faro, mirroring his look of confusion.

**_The Wheel is near-useless without the string. The string is dormant without the Wheel. They're complimentary. Did you really think the families would be afraid of the wheel's power alone? It's a status symbol, yes, but that's not all._ **

Faro held Aaron's wrist, and brought it up to his face. The thread was golden, almost like someone had picked the strings of a harp and welded them together. It glowed in the light, too. "We've got both items - what are we supposed to do?"

**_Hell if I know, kid. It works differently for each person._ **

Great. This was going to go _marvelously_.

 

Faro looked out of the window, and noticed it was late noon. In a few hours, another interrogator would be sent, and they'd notice the clothes on the floor, and then there'd be no chance of him escaping the cell at all.

Aaron had begun to pace the length of the floor. Afra had _very helpfully_ gone silent.

It was up to them to figure it out. _This is for my mother,_ he vowed. _No matter how stupid or irresponsible she'd been as a parent._

"Okay," he began, "How about I use the thread to spin something?" Aaron stopped to turn to him.

"That's _so_ useful, thanks for the input, _Hasanov_ ," he spat. Faro just looked at him indifferently, until he cooled down and sighed. "We've got to spin something in particular, something that'll fulfill the _old prophecy_."

"What 'prophecy?' Last time, you'd spouted it in Azerbaijani or something, and expected me to just _know_ what you meant."

Aaron ran his hands through his soft, dark hair. "It's - alright, it talks about how the convergence of the items is linked to the joining of the families. The Hasanovs and the Minopeles. We're supposed to _do_ something together, to trigger some sort of magical items’ creation."

**_That's the whole allure of the wheel and thread. On their own, they can't do much, but the things they create are almost unmatched in power._ **

"Wait, did you just say 'do' something together? What is it that we have to do?"

Aaron looked at him, and for the first time, Faro saw resignation and fear in his eyes. "I don't know any more than that."

Faro looked at him - a teenager, his age, in a cloak and mask. What had been the cause for his tired expression? Why had he looked away when his family had been mentioned? What was a son of one of the families - one who hadn't heard of a _Haole -_ doing here?

Aaron was an enigma - one that he didn't have time to solve. Faro had thought that having the items would have let him escape the prison, but obviously, that wasn't how ‘the prophecy’ worked.

They'd have to work together, unless he wanted to try explaining the scarves, ropes and melted glass to his interrogators. What would his mother have done?

**_You are not your mother. She's dead, and you're not. What you're going to do now needs to be something that only you'd think of._ **

Aaron hadn't heard Afra when she’d spoken just then. Either that, or he didn't care. Faro steeled himself - he'd have to forget about getting out of the cell for now.

“Hey, Aaron. Why are you here?”

He looked up. “Can we _concentrate_?”

“No, we can't. Just answer the question, I've got an idea.”

Aaron stared at him for almost half a minute before answering. “I wanted to get away from the families - they were tying me down - and I didn’t know any other way to go about it.”

“You don't seem very tied down to me,” Faro cut in. “How did you get in here as an interrogator?”

“Luck. Money. Whatever I had. I wanted to get to the loom, fulfill the prophecy and use the reward to get out of the country. Or something along those lines.“

The realization came to Faro at once. _He’s on the run._ It explained his desperation, and the pathetic disguises he’d donned to get _into_ a prison.

A small part of his mind whispered, _he’s just another heir who wants to use you._ He found that it wasn’t his voice - it was his mother’s.

“I’m going to help you, Aaron. We’re getting out of here, and fulfilling the prophecy.“

It was his own voice, and he almost jumped when he heard it. It had been confident, inspiring, proud. Aaron seemed stunned as well, and something between them _clicked._ They knew what to do.

**_Spoken like a true Hasanov._ **

 

Things had seemed to fall into place after that. Apparently, all it took to get magic going was a moment of self-discovery and a dash of teamwork. Faro would keep that in mind the next time he was in a difficult situation.

Right now, he kept his eyes on the melted window and his hands on the loom. The minutes were ticking down - in less than an hour, an interrogator would walk through the door, and everything they’d done would be in vain. The Wheel was warm under his touch, as he put the finishing touches on the items they were creating.

**_Concentrate, Faro. Good. Aaron, it’s finished. Take them off the loom - handle them carefully, this is the most important part._ **

The dark-haired teen gingerly lifted the golden, iridescent armbands away from The Wheel, and set them on the bed. The setting sun’s light glanced off their fibers, and the two heirs spoke the same word at once. “Amplifiers.“

Faro had _meant_ for them to be amplifiers - it was what had _felt right,_ what had _made sense_ at the time. They had seemed to make themselves as he’d remembered Afra’s instructions, had _cross-stitched then weaved._

There were two of them. “One for each of us,“ he said. “That’s how they work.“

Without comment, they slipped into their new heirlooms. Their new _weapons_.

And as soon as the garment covered his skin, Faro felt a rush of adrenaline. A pulse of power ran through his body, and when he looked over at Aaron, he seemed to be feeling the same thing.

“Oh. _Oh._ “

There were new things he could feel, mingled with the magic under his skin. It felt exhilarating, exciting, _magical,_ and he could finally understand why the families wanted the heirlooms so desperately. The Wheel had spun magic from thread. _He’d_ spun magic from thread.

Then, the hinges on the wall squeaked. The cell’s door clicked open. Crap.

“You’ve figured out that machine yet, _Haole?_ We’re getting impatient.“ The interrogator stepped into the room, and stopped in her tracks. Faro had frozen, and he wanted to scream. _No, everything had been in vain, everything was going to be taken away._

_They’d failed._

But he hadn’t counted on Aaron to do anything either. As usual, he was proved wrong - and he couldn’t be more relieved.

In the second it took for the interrogator to recover, Aaron gripped Faro’s arm, and pulled him to The Wheel, with Ariadne’s Thread still strung through it. For a moment, Faro didn’t recognize him - the dark haired teen was _glowing._

Literally.

His eyes were luminescent, neither the iris or pupil visible. His skin, which had been tanned before, glowed with the colours of the sunset - light emanated from every part of his body.

Touching the heirlooms, he murmured something under his breath. The armband Faro had made only moments prior was warm to the touch, and when the interrogator began forward, he shouted a single word.

**_“Kənar!“_ **

Faro recognized the language - Azerbaijani - and he knew what the word meant, even though he’d never spoken it like Aaron had. His voice had carried itself through the air, filled with raw power.

_Away._

And that’s what had happened. Light had exploded out of him, filling the room like water and wrapping itself around them. It had spilled through the open door, through the melted window, and just taken them _away._

 

Faro woke up to the foreign smell of fresh air. It had been weeks since he’d remembered feeling any, and the coolness washed over him like a gentle river.

He was lying on cold, hard rock. God, he must’ve fallen off the bed during the night. It was probably dawn - he always woke at dawn, and Faro prepared to do his daily stretches, when he realized he wasn’t inside the cell anymore.

The events came back to him - the armbands, the interrogator, Aaron _glowing_ like a nebula, and the word he’d used for their escape: _Kənar. Away_.

He sat up, and found that Aaron had taken them to a cave. A dry one, with a low ceiling and wide walls, and enough light coming from the dawn’s light for him to see clearly.

The Wheel was on its side a few metres away. Aaron was lying next to it, and he looked more dead than asleep.

**_Don’t be so dramatic - he’s just unconscious. It looks like the heirlooms worked._ **

Faro felt for the golden armband on his skin, and was put at ease when its golden fibers were warm to the touch. “What happened back in the cell?“

**_Nothing unexpected. The garments you made with Ariadne’s Thread were powerful enough to amplify your magic. Aaron’s, in particular._ **

He looked at the dark-haired teen. Before, he’d been terrifyingly powerful, with the light of the sun in his eyes and hands.

Now, he was a barely shadow. Dark circles under his eyes, and pale skin showed how much the ‘escape’ had cost him. Aaron’s armband was still glowing slightly, and Faro, despite the rest his friend needed, willed it to wake him up.

The armbands flashed white-hot for a moment, and Aaron jolted awake, gasping. Faro noticed how he was still wearing the pretentious cloak from before, and had to stifle a laugh.

“Wait-did it...did it work? Tell...tell me it worked, Faro. I - we all had to get-“

“- away. It worked, cloak-and-dagger. We’re safe, we escaped, and the heirlooms are here as well.“

Aaron took a few moments to process the news, and flopped back down on the stone floor with a sigh. He was still weak and looked frail, but his relief was palpable.

The two of them looked at each other, after a while. The moments of silence had been peaceful, and Faro just wanted to breathe in the fresh, clean air after so long.

Their eyes met, and all of a sudden, they were laughing.

A relieved, _I-can’t-believe-this-is-actually-happening_ sort of laugh. Their armbands already felt like extensions of their body, and as Faro pulled Aaron to his feet, they began pulsating.

**_You’ve done well, kids. I sound like an old hag, I know. But it’s true - I’m glad you managed to escape._ **

Faro remembered his words, back in the cell. He was free, but living a life on the run wasn’t _really_ the freedom he wanted. He’d promised to do something, and he wasn’t planning on letting his mother’s voice, her lessons, keep him from doing it.

He turned to Aaron. “So, about that prophecy.“


End file.
